


Fever

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Series: Yellow Fever [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1793, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Philadelphia, Sickfic, Yellow Fever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10391004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: Yellow Fever sweeps through Philadelphia in the late summer of 1793. The Treasury Secretary finds himself feeling unwell.





	1. Chapter 1

Hamilton’s hand hesitates over the bottom of his latest update to the President. Perhaps this isn’t the best way of informing the President of his fears. Perhaps Jefferson is right and he really is just being a hypochondriac. Maybe the meat from dinner last night sat out just a little too long. Still, he should warn Washington, right? Just in case?

His stomach rumbles in distress as he stares at the blank bottom of the page. The nausea is surging up again. A chill shoots through him despite the muggy summer day outside. His head is pounding in the heat and light of his office. He wants to go home.

He dips the quill in the ink and scrawls a note on the paper. Nothing too alarmist, but enough so that if he doesn’t show up tomorrow (or ever again), Washington won’t be entirely blindsided. The department would just have to limp on without him for however much longer the clerks and deputies could be strong armed into showing up.

He blots the ink quickly (too quickly, it smudges a little) and seals the letter. Tossing his most important documents into his case, he takes it and the letter, walks out of the office, and locks the door behind him.

The letter is passed to the nearest clerk on the way out with directions to see it is delivered to the President today. “I’ll be gone the rest of the day.”

The clerk nods in acknowledgement. “I’ll let Mr. Wolcott know.”

Hamilton nods and heads outside.

It seems to take an eternity to get home, although he lives only a few blocks down from the Treasury building. His stomach aches intolerably and his head pounds with every step. He vomits in the alley before entering the house, his whole body aching and trembling. When the door clicks shut behind him, he sags against it, closing his eyes.

“Eliza?” he manages to call.

“Papa!”  A chorus of his children’s voices answer back from upstairs. He can hear his wife’s heels on the floor above. Pushing off from the door, he stumbles into the parlor and collapses on a chair with his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” His wife’s voice carries in from the foyer, not yet even in the room with him. He forces himself to look up. She’s standing before him, warm and soft and worried. And beautiful. So very beautiful, inside and out.

He beckons her over to him, wants to hold her and never let go.

“I’m sick,” he tells her once she settles in his lap. He grips her waist and lets his head fall against her shoulder.

“Your cold is worse?” she asks sympathetically. Her fingers stroke his hair.

Guilt hits him. He’s been lying the past few days, assuring her he’d caught a minor cold so she wouldn’t worry or suspect what he’d actually contracted. Why is he always lying to her? Why couldn’t he be a man worthy of her love and esteem?

He tries to be honest now. “I feel like I’m freezing and burning at the same time. My head is pounding, my whole body aches, and Lord, my stomach….” His stomach is cramping badly. He needs to be sick again.

Eliza’s hand freezes in his hair. She knows, he’s sure. She’s likely panicked, frantic with worry, but her voice stays steady. “Let’s get you in bed, and I’ll send for a doctor.”

She leans in to kiss him. He slaps a hand over his mouth instinctively to stop her. At her questioning look, he explains, “Don’t. I…I’ve been ill several times today. My breath…”

She rolls her eyes at him, pulls his hand away, and kisses him firmly.

He groans as she slides from his lap.

“Come on, upstairs,” she prompts when he doesn’t move. She holds her hands out to him.

He complies after taking a steadying breath and manages to stand for a whole second before plopping back into the seat. The room is spinning around him and he can feel the vestiges his last meal moving up his esophagus. Eliza’s hand lands on his back, rubbing soothingly.

“Dizzy,” he mutters to her.

 “Take your time. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

Walking upstairs seems like a lot of work. He wonders if she’d allow him to curl up in this chair and stay there. Or maybe on the floor. The hard wood looked cool and comforting. He shakes his head, trying to pull himself together.

Little footsteps carry down from upstairs as they sit, and he suddenly remembers the children. He shivers in the damp heat of summer and imagines how much worse this would be for his babies. “Eliza, the children….”

“They’re fine,” she hushes him. Her hand is still massaging his back.

“No. We have to…they can’t be here. They can’t stay in the house.”

He forces himself to look up, to meet her eyes. He won’t be responsible for hurting his babies. Her face crumples, her composure starting to crack as the gravity of the situation sinks in. She lets out a shaky breath and nods. “When you’re settled, I’ll bring them across the street.”

“You, too,” he insists.

“No.”

“Eliza--”

“No.”

He recognizes the firm set of her jaw. She won’t be persuaded on this. His shoulders slump in defeat, his head hanging, the churning in his gut worsening with worry. He shouldn’t have let her kiss him, he thinks. A better man would have been able to convince her to go. He’d never be worthy of her. Never.

Her dress rustles as she kneels before him, her small pale hands resting over his.

“Hey,” she whispers. He looks at her once more. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispers. He does. Truly. It’s just, he’s sure he’ll never be good enough for her. He seems to have spent the last two years proving that.

“Are you ready to try again?” she asks softly.

He nods, swallowing thickly. “Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

The walk upstairs is worse than the walk from his office. The whole world spins madly, the floor moving beneath him like planks laid over the ocean. Worst of all, to his utter humiliation, he vomits again on the floor of their bedroom. All the food in him has long since been expelled, and he burps up a mixture of bile and what looks like coffee grounds.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, looking at the mess with revulsion.

Eliza simply rubs his back, cooing softly, “It’s fine, sweetheart. Just lie down. I’ll take care of it.”

Once he’s lying in bed, she hurries off. He lets his eyes fall closed, trying to stop his brain from bursting free from his head. Suddenly, a foreign voice is whispering somewhere overhead. A calloused hand grabs his wrist and presses too hard against his pulse point.

“We’ll start by bleeding him at once to slow his pulse,” the voice says clinically. “I’ll need more blankets. Once he’s been bled, I’ll start him on the course of purgatives recommended by Doctor Rush.”

He forces his eyes open once more. A colleague of Rush’s, he recognizes, but can’t recall the man’s name. He’d been reading about the treatments being used by Rush, even before he felt ill himself. Treatments similar to those used on his mother in those last days.

“No.”

His croaky voice surprises him no less than the other two occupants of the room.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Eliza soothes, patting at his feet through the blankets.

The doctor says nothing. He pulls a scalpel from his black bag, along with a basin to catch the blood he intends to drain. His sweaty hands are wrapped around Hamilton’s wrist like a vice, hard enough to bruise.

“No,” he says, more firmly. He rallies all his strength and pushes himself up in the bed. From a seated position, he has leverage enough to pull his arm loose from the doctor’s grip.

“Mr. Hamilton, lay back, sir,” the doctor finally deigns to speak to him directly.

He’d spoken to Ned Stevens a few days ago, for the first time in over a decade. They’d caught up on their lives after Saint Croix and King’s over a pint at a local tavern. Among other topics, Ned had mentioned his theories on treating the prevailing fever plaguing the city. Theories widely disparate from Doctor Rush and his ilk. He was in Philadelphia on business, bound for New York tomorrow, if Hamilton’s foggy brain wasn’t failing him entirely. 

“Eliza,” he addresses his wife, his beautiful, perfect wife, keeping his arm out of reach of the doctor at his side. “I want Doctor Stevens.”

Eliza frowns, looking at the doctor nervously.

“Why don’t you sit downstairs while we begin?” the doctor says to her, ignoring entirely that Hamilton had ever spoken. Hamilton snorts a laugh at the suggestion.

Eliza looks back to him.

“What time is it?” he asks her, hoping he looks coherent and present enough to convince her to ignore the man beside them.

“Just passed two,” she answers him.

“Please, Eliza. Send for him at once. He should still be here. I need Doctor Stevens. Please,” he pleads.

She nods at him once, firmly, and he feels something in his chest loosen. She’ll take care of it, he knows. She’s amazing like that.

The doctor snatches his arm roughly once more, tugging it over the bed and pressing it too hard into the mattress.

“Stop,” he demands as the scalpel is brought towards his arm.

“Doctor, thank you for your time. I do not think we will have any further need of your services,” Eliza intervenes, stepping into the space between the doctor and the bed holding her husband.

“He’s out of his mind with the fever, Mrs. Hamilton. Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside the room while I work,” the doctor says firmly.

“He does not seem out of his mind to me,” Eliza replies. Hamilton can hear the offense in her tone. He doesn’t envy the doctor the fight he’s brought on himself. “Now, please unhand my husband.”

“Mrs. Hamilton—.”

“Immediately, sir,” Eliza insists, her voice going quiet. Hamilton knows without looking that her nostrils have flared at this point, her eyes narrowed slightly. Eliza never shouts. Her voice gets deadly quiet when she’s cross.

The doctor seems at last to sense the ire he’s provoked. He huffs petulantly, tosses the surgeon’s instrument in his bag, and stalks from the room without so much as another word.

Eliza looks down at him again. He smiles up at her, and he thinks his expression may have gone slightly silly with sheer love and adoration. Maybe he is out of his mind with fever?

“I hope you know what you’re doing. That man won’t come back if you’re dying in convulsions on the floor, now,” she told him. Her mouth quirked up slightly as she spoke, though. She wasn’t angry with him.

“Doctor Stevens,” he repeats.

“I’ll go for him myself,” she assures him. “Just rest, my love.”

He closes his eyes and drifts off again.

He dreams of Saint Croix, the hot sun burning his fair skin, his mother’s voice carrying from their little shop, that rickety old bed where he’d beaten the fever that killed his mother. He dreams about Neddy. His dear old friend pushes him into the cool water of the ocean. They laugh.

“Sweetheart?”

He looks around for Eliza. She sounds upset, but he can’t see her.

“Please, my darling,” she urges him. He must get to her. She needs him to do something. What? “Open your eyes. Please.”

His eyes are open, he tries to tell her. He can see the ocean, and the beach, and Neddy splashing in the waves beside him. Suddenly, the ground moves on its own. His stomach roils. The cool water turns icy and uncomfortable.

He fights to get out, but Neddy is holding him down.

“Calm down, Hammy,” Neddy whispers. “Everything is all right. We need to get your fever down, that’s all.”

His stomach hurts fiercely. He squeezes his eyes shut and vomits down his front. When he opens his eyes again, he sees his Philadelphia bedroom. He’s in a tub of cold water, being held down by Neddy. Eliza is on his other side, her face pale with worry.

“There you are,” Ned smiles. “Nice to see you, Hammy.”

He looks down at the tub. Mucus and the coffee ground-like substance he’d vomited up earlier are floating atop the water. His stomach heaves again at the sight. Neddy and Eliza are cooing comforting nonsense at him. Neddy squeezes a cold cloth over his head, the icy water dribbling down his face and neck and making him whimper.

“Get a night shirt ready, Mrs. Hamilton. I think it’s safe to take him out, now,” Ned says when his teeth begin to clatter together. He wants to make a biting retort, something clever about frost bite, but he’s shivering too hard to form words.

Ned lifts him gently from the tub and towels him off while holding him up. His feet stumble over the side of the tub, but Ned keeps him steady. Eliza is holding a night shirt. She slides it over his head, and between the three of them, he manages to get his arms through the sleeves. Eliza slips under one arm and Neddy holds him by the other, and slowly they lead him back to bed. The bed linen is different. He wonders vaguely if he vomited on the other set in his sleep.

“Try some broth while you’re coherent,” Ned advises. Eliza has somehow made broth materialize from nowhere. Had he fallen asleep again? She is sitting at his side, holding the spoon before his mouth.

He turns his head away from the spoon. His stomach is churning, still. Anything he puts in it will come right back out again, he’s sure.

“Just a little, my love,” Eliza encourages. “Even if you lose it, it’ll be better than dry heaves, right?”

He supposes that’s true. He holds his head still as she pushes the spoon to his lips. The warm liquid feels wonderful after the torturous cold of the bath. Eliza smiles when he opens his mouth for more. He loves her smile. He loves her. He decides to tell her so as he drinks down the next spoonful.

“I love you, too, my dearest,” Eliza assures him. She leans in and presses a kiss against his lips. He closes his eyes again.

~*~

The fever abates slightly the next day, but does not break. He thinks that is worse. At least when it was high, he spent most of the time unconscious. The morning passes with intolerable slowness. His temperature swings between chills and sweats. He constantly shoves the blankets off, only to gather them back up when the shivers start. He feels uncharacteristically cross at everything. The sun is too bright through the windows. The sounds on the street below are grating and loud. Even the rustle of his wife’s dress as she moves through the room sets his teeth on edge.

Eliza seems not to mind is foul humor.

“I’m just glad you’re better today, my love,” she told him sweetly after he’d snapped at her for coddling him.

He looks at her now, seated on the window seat with some embroidery. She looks up from the dainty stitches at something outside, smiles, and waves.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He sounds annoyed to his own ears.

“The children are waving,” Eliza tells him calmly. “I don’t want them to worry.”

“Oh.” He looks back to the ceiling and tries to get his temper under control.

“Doctor Stevens will be back in a few hours,” she informs him. He rolls his head to look at her again. She’s gone back to her stitching. “Would you like something to read?”

His eyes ache. The thought of trying to focus on words makes his head throb. “No,” he answers, making an effort not to snap.

“Is there anything I could do to make you feel better?” Eliza asks him gently.

He thinks about it. She can’t take the fever away or make his stomach stop trying to leap out of his mouth. He’d like to hold her, but he’s too hot to have her anywhere near him at the moment.

He remembers suddenly being bedridden in Morristown all those years ago. Eliza had stood over him then and asked the same question. The memory makes him smile.

“A kiss?” he asks, the same request he’d made that day.

She smiles beatifically and places the embroidery down at her side. He wonders if she remembers that day, too. Her dress rustles as she comes to him, but it doesn’t bother him like it did earlier. She seats herself on the bed and leans in, her hand tangling in his hair as she presses her lips to his. He relishes her touch, relaxing as her fingers massage his scalp lightly.

She pulls away, but doesn’t stand from the bed. His eyes are closed, but he hears the tinkle of water on porcelain. A moment later, a cool damp cloth is placed over his eyes. He sighs in relief.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

~*~

He’s back in the rickety bed with his mother. She’s burning hot and she keeps rolling against him. He tries to push her away, but his limbs feel like lead. Ned is there again. He’s hovering over Mama.

But that’s not right. Ned never met Mama.

With supreme effort he rolls his head to the side. Ned really is there, but it’s not Mama beside him. Eliza is in bed, her face pale with bright fever spots on her cheeks. Ned is holding a basin for her, and she’s heaving weakly, the same vile combination of bile and coffee grounds Hamilton’s been producing for the past two days.

He wants to hold her. Comfort her as she comforted him through his sickness. The room still feels too hot to even consider pressing his body against her, though. The sweat beading her brow tells him she wouldn’t appreciate it if he tried, anyway.

He forces his aching body to turn over onto his side. Eliza’s done vomiting now. Ned is taking away the sick. Her eyes are closed as she sinks back into the bed, her hands pushing feebly at the blankets.

Hamilton reaches out to clasp the edge of the blanket. He peals it away until its bunched between them in the bed. Her stunning black eyes open and she looks at him with gratitude. He feels guilt coil in his stomach. He’s responsible for this. How can she look at him with anything less than hatred?

Her arm shifts so that her palm is lying face up on the bunched blankets between them. It looks like it takes her as much effort as it takes him to move. He smiles a little at her open palm. She twitches her hand in invitation. His fingers twist between hers, and he gently pulls her hand up to his lips. When he kisses the back of her hand, Eliza smiles at him.

They are both desperately ill, possibly dying. His secret shame festers inside him, threatening to upend all their happiness. But none of that seems to matter as he grips his wife’s hand.

Nothing seems so bad when Eliza is at his side.


	2. Chapter 2

“Morning, Hammy,” Ned whispers.

Hamilton peels an eye open to see Ned standing over him. “Hi,” he whispers, voice hardly audible from his dry throat.

“Your fever is down,” Ned tells him. He looks exhausted but satisfied. Hamilton tries to smile at him. He isn’t sure it looks very reassuring.

He rolls his head to see Eliza fast asleep beside him. He swallows once to wet his throat and asks, “Is she all right?”

“Doing very well,” Ned assures him. “I want you to have some tea and to try to eat now that you’re awake.”

“What about Eliza?” he asks, fighting to sit up in bed.

Ned smiles patiently at him as he helps him sit up, pushing a pillow behind his back to support him. “I’ll give her some, too, when she wakes. Rest assured, I won’t neglect your wife, Ham. Frankly, I think I like her better than you.”

“That shows good taste,” Hamilton jokes weakly.

Ned chuckles and claps him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Eliza’s mouth is open and there’s a little drool on her pillow. He leans over to press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin still feels warm to him, but not so high as to be overly concerning. His movements seem to pull her from her rest, her eyes suddenly blinking open.

“Good morning, my angel,” he whispers softly.

“Mm,” she hums, one of her eyes closing again. She raises a hand to her mouth, drawing it over the corner. Her nose wrinkles adorably. “I’m drooling.”

“Yes, you are,” he confirms.

She huffs at him. “Well, you snore.”

He laughs. “I think it’s quite cute, actually.”

“Your snoring?”

“Your drooling,” he corrects fondly. “How are you feeling?”

She considers a moment and shakes her head. “Not very well.”

“My poor darling,” he coos. One of her arms flops out from under the covers, and she slings it across his chest to grip at his shoulder. Slowly, with great effort, she pulls herself close to him, pillowing her head on his chest. He kisses her temple and holds her close.

Ned reappears in the doorway minutes later with a tray. “Oh, good, you’re both awake. I have tea and bread enough for two.”

Eliza groans. He stays quiet, but doesn’t feel much happier about the prospect of food. Ned fixes them both with hard looks. “You need to get your strength back. You’re both well enough to start eating again,” Ned admonishes.

He places the tray on the bed and begins to pour the tea. Meeting Eliza’s eye, he holds out the first cup to her. “Come now, Mrs. Hamilton. Set a good example for your husband.”

Perhaps using Eliza’s worry over him against her isn’t fair, but Hamilton has to admit it’s effective. She heaves herself into a sitting position and takes the cup without hesitation. The next cup is handed to him, and he can’t very well refuse it now. (When exactly did his friend become such a master of manipulation?) He takes it and sips slowly at the brew, the calming chamomile that always settles his stomach.

The bread rolls comes next, and much less successfully. One bite leaves Eliza retching over a basin and Hamilton doing everything in his power to keep from joining her. Ned is at her side in an instant, holding her hair away from her face as she’s ill. “Easy, Mrs. Hamilton. Take deep breaths.”

When Eliza finishes, Ned takes the basin from her. She looks over at Hamilton miserably. He quickly pulls her to him and eases them both back into a reclined position, her head pillowed against his chest once more. Rubbing her back gently, he assures her, “Everything will be all right. Just rest, my dearest.”

“Are you all right?” Eliza croaks, voice muffled against his nightshirt.

He laughs a little, amazed at her nurturing instincts even as she’s terribly ill herself. “I’m fine,” he tells her. “Much better. I’m just a little fatigued, is all.”

She grunts in response, already half asleep. Shortly after, he feels her begin to drool again. Brushing some of her loose hair away from her face, he smiles down at her. He doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more.

~*~

He’s bored. Eliza’s still ill enough that she does little but sleep, and Ned has left to attend to other patients. So he is left lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. His minds races with tasks and ideas and words—so many words, itching to come out. There is so much that needs doing, and he is lying in bed.

Eliza shifts suddenly and rolls away from him onto her side of the bed. He reaches out to test her forehead again. About the same as earlier, he determines. Feverish, but not dangerously so. He sits up slowly and swings his legs out of bed, making an effort not to disturb his wife’s slumber.

He stands. The blood rushes from his head, but his legs feel steady beneath him. After a few deep breaths, his vision clears. Collecting his banyan from the stand near the door, he exits the room as silently as possible.

When he gets to his office, he sits heavily in his chair. Walking seems to take more effort than it used to, he thinks. Still, he’d managed under his own power, and his mind feels clear. He opens his ink bottle, takes a fresh sheet of paper, and grips his quill. As soon as he touches the writing implement to the paper, all feels right with the world.

Ned’s treatment had proved very effective. He feels duty bound to share that information for the public good, and decides to write to the College of Physicians here in Philadelphia. He hesitates over the date, not entirely sure what day it is now. He writes the month and leaves the rest blank. _Gentlemen_ , he begins, considering his next words. They flow easily from his pen.

“What in the world are you doing?” Ned’s voice startles him badly.

He looks over at his friend. “Writing a letter,” he answers simply.

Ned does not appear to be amused. “You should be in bed, Ham. I know you’re feeling better now, and that’s wonderful, but you need to let yourself rest.”

“I feel duty bound to share the results of your treatment method. It proved most effective with myself, and seems equally successful with my wife. People need to know that Rush’s blood-letting and purgatives aren’t the answer.”

Ned steps further into the room and cranes his neck to read the top of the page. “You’re writing the College of Physicians?”

Hamilton nods.

Ned looks vaguely flattered, and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m grateful for your confidence, Hammy,” he says. “Are you almost finished?”

He nods again, and asks, “Will you make yourself available if they should have questions?”

“Of course. Although, if Mrs. Hamilton continues well today, I was planning to head back to New York tomorrow. I have some business there I’ve put off. I should be back here before long, though.”

Hamilton quickly jots down the last few lines and signs his name with a flourish. After asking Ned the date with some embarrassment, he folds up the letter and requests, “Will you post this for me?”  

“I will,” Ned agrees. “Now, come on, back to bed with you.”

With a sigh, he stands once more. Considering his previous boredom, he turns suddenly with the idea of going to the bookcase to bring something to read back with him. The abrupt movement sets his head spinning, and the world tilts sideways.

He comes back to consciousness a moment later, sprawled out on the floor of his office with Ned’s face hovering close to his. Ned frowns down at him. “Let that be a lesson you.”

He groans in response.

“Does your head hurt? Any bumps?” Ned asks, his hand already feeling around his skull.

“No. I’m all right,” he assures. “I just…turned too quickly.”

“Sure. Happens every day,” Ned replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “All right, Hammy. Up we go. Let’s get you comfortable.”

“I wanted to bring a book,” he protests as Ned leads him from the office.

“I’ll go back for one,” Ned promises, holding him around the shoulders for support. When they get back to the bedroom, Eliza rouses from her slumber once more.

“What happened?” she mumbles.

“Your husband escaped. I’ve since reacquired him,” Ned answers, depositing Hamilton on the bed. “Would you mind keeping ahold of him, Mrs. Hamilton? So he doesn’t wander off to do more work?”

Eliza rolls over and latches on to him once more. “Stay,” she directs sleepily, snuggling into his chest. Ned pulls the blankets up around both of them, and goes off to collect the promised volume for him.

He settles back against the pillows and strokes his hand over his wife’s back. This is nice, he thinks. The bed is comfortable and warm. His beautiful wife is asleep in his arms. And perhaps he is a little tired, after all. He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t hear Ned return with the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton did immediately write to the College of Physicians when he first began to recover. Both he and Eliza recovered within in week of getting ill under Doctor Stevens' treatment. Of course, Ham's initial recovery was hardly the end of the story....

**Author's Note:**

> Interestingly, the idea of Hamilton sending away a doctor who used methods such as purgatives and blood letting has some basis in fact. Thomas Jefferson wrote to James Madison on September 8th (in one of his nastier letters) that Hamilton had been seen by two separate doctors in one day. Had that method of treatment actually been used on him, he likely would have died. 
> 
> Also, in case you're wondering, that coffee-like substance he keeps vomiting is actually blood-one of the many horrible symptoms of yellow fever. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback always happily received!


End file.
